“I am. And I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Hunter. Won’t you come join us in the sitting room?”
“No. Very sorry, sir, but I’m entering Mr. Holmes’s service.”
“She’s what?” I turned to my friend and demanded, “Have you advertised for a maid?”
“No! I didn’t! I wouldn’t! She just barged in here, Watson, and started straightening up—going on about becoming a wizard’s thrall and earning my protection and such. I don’t know what she’s on about. Look! She’s touching my toast racks! Make her stop!”
“Miss Hunter,” I said, “please, won’t you have a cup of tea and tell us exactly what brought you here?”
“No. Not until this one takes me into his service.”
“Watson! Toast racks!”
“I’m sorry,” said Miss Hunter with an apologetic shrug, “but I need Mr. Holmes’s protection.”
“Aaaaaagh! My soup pot!”
“No! Stop! Everybody, stop!” I shouted. “Holmes, Miss Hunter, I appeal for calm.”
Ten minutes later, we found ourselves seated in the room named for that purpose, holding steaming cups. This alone was enough to quiet me. There was a certain comfort in that simple act—a feeling that everything was in its right place. Where were we? A sitting room. What were we doing? Sitting. So, we couldn’t be that far off the mark, could we?
Once we were settled, Miss Hunter began her tale. “Gentlemen, I am an out-of-work governess with no family. I don’t know if I can impress upon you what a terribly precarious position that is. There are few prospects for a girl like me and—though a fall from so low a height may seem to be of little consequence to many—I assure you I have no interest at all in living the life that might be afforded to me if I cannot maintain my position. Perhaps my youth and minor attractions might be sufficient to engage the attentions of some dockside brute to keep my frustration numbed with alcohol until the day that either it or he might prove to be the end of me. As I said: I’ve no interest in it.”
“But… you are so poised!” I protested. “So very well spoken!”
She shrugged. “It is no great trick to seem better than I am. Yet the moment my standing is tested—either by need of money, of influence, of people who support me… well… it all crumbles in that instant.
“For the last two weeks, I have been living in rented rooms at Holden Court, watching my funds dwindle and hoping that Miss Stoper—who runs Westaway’s agency— might secure me a new position. You can imagine my relief, then, when yesterday morning a messenger knocked at my door and asked if I might report to Westaway’s and present myself to a client whose needs I seemed to match exactly. When I arrived I found a small army of hopefuls present. Half had been interviewed and disappointed, the rest awaited the moment they might be adjudged. Nevertheless, Miss Stoper’s clerk knew I had been summoned and escorted me past the line to her door. When the next lady marched dejectedly out, I was called in immediately.
“As I entered, Miss Stoper announced, ‘Mr. Jephro Rucastle, this is Miss Violet Hunter.’
“The moment he saw me, Mr. Rucastle jumped up and exclaimed, ‘Yes! She is the one! Precisely what I need!’
“What a strange appearance he presented, gentlemen! I think you will hardly believe me if I describe him.”
Holmes and I shared a glance.
“Oh,” Holmes sighed, “we might.”
“He looks like… well… rather an awful lot like… a turkey,” Miss Hunter said, glancing around to see if anybody had seen her slight her potential employer. “He is tremendously fat, but he carries it all down low, you see. His shoulders are narrow, his neck rather long. And he has this… wattle… I mean, of course it is only normal human flesh, but the placement of it… the way it shakes… almost exactly like a turkey’s wattle. And he has a laugh to match it! It sounds as if he’s gobbling, I would swear. Now, in spite of this, he is charming. I know it sounds strange but I think he knows he looks funny and so he chooses to be funny. He’s rather disarming. Such a friendly man, so ready to laugh—”
“A perfect villain!” Holmes declared.
I gave him a sideways look.
“No, really, Watson, I am in earnest. Nothing hides maleficence so well as a smile. Nothing lures like a word of kindness. The man shall prove a villain: rely upon it!”
“If he does, he’ll be the second evil bird-like creature in as many months,” I muttered. “I am considering a moratorium. Miss Hunter, pray, continue your tale.”
“Well, I was rather shocked that a man who had turned away so many hopefuls would wish to hire me the very second he laid eyes upon me, without knowing my history or qualifications at all. I said, ‘Mr. Rucastle, are you not being a bit hasty?’
“But he said, ‘Oh, tut, tut! You mustn’t call me Mr. Rucastle! Nobody calls me that! I’m simply the Copper, my dear. I came by that name because of the color of my hair—copper, just like yours. Or it was, in my youth. But those days are gone, hey? Gone with a song and a smile and a loving cup!’
“‘Very well, Mr.… Copper,’ I said. ‘I can teach reading, writing and arithmetic, of course. Music. A little German—’
“But he scoffed at me. ‘Bah!’ he said. ‘That’s well and good, as far as it goes, but when you are being considered for a position such as this—raising a child who may one day figure prominently in the future of our realm—there is one question and one question only: have you the deportment of a lady?’
“Here he paused, leaned in expectantly at me, then threw his arms up and delivered the verdict, ‘You have! So that’s all settled, then. You must come up and join us at the Copper Beeches. That’s the name of my house. It’s not on the coast, I’m afraid. We’re in Hampshire, near Winchester. No proper beaches. It’s named for beech trees, you see! We have beech trees! Ha! I hope you won’t be too disappointed. Now, how much did you earn in your last position?’
“I told him, ‘I had four pounds a month.’
“He sprang back and shouted, ‘Four? Per month?’ Now, I knew my last salary had been a bit better than the average governess might command, but not so lofty as to cause such indignation. I feared Mr. Rucastle was about to come forth with a scanty offer indeed. But the very opposite was true. ‘Four a month? That is sweating! That is slavery! Why, if I had that criminal here, I would… I would… I don’t know what I’d do! How could anybody…? No, no, no! Your salary, madam, will commence at one hundred pounds per year.’
“‘Very generous, sir,’ I told him. ‘And what would be my duties?’
“‘Why, you must take care of my boy, little Barghest!’ Mr. Rucastle laugh-gobbled. ‘Oh, you’ll love him. Cutest little nipper, but he thinks he’s the fiercest thing alive! Ha! You should see him killing spiders! Zap! Smack! Zap! Three, gone in a second with whatever he’s got to hand. His shoe, his hands, his teeth, it doesn’t matter. Ha!’
“‘Only the one child?’ I asked. ‘That will be the extent of my duties?’
“‘Oh, well… not the full extent,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t mind indulging my wife’s little fancies, eh? Always providing they were such commands as a lady might, with propriety, obey. We might like you to sit here, or sit there. Or wear a certain electric blue dress. Oh, and your hair… My wife is very particular upon that point. It must be cut very short. I trust such things would not inconvenience you, eh?’
“I must have visibly blanched, for Miss Stoper gave me a very severe look. I didn’t mean to quail, gentlemen, for I desperately needed a position, but… well, I’ve never had much. Never any money. Not many luxuries, not many possessions of any kind. Very nearly nothing to set me apart from my crowd of fellow unfortunates… except… my hair. It’s always what I’ve been known for, don’t you see? I know it probably sounds foolish to you two, but—”
“It doesn’t,” said Holmes, gravely. “There is a great power in hair. One must always be cautious with it.”
“Really?” Miss Hunter wondered.
“That has l
ong been my colleague’s professional opinion,” I told her. “Yet, you may wish to reserve judgment of its wisdom until you hear which form of hair most concerns him.”
Miss Hunter turned to Holmes expectantly.
“Ear hair,” he opined. “Especially ear hair.”
In the interest of truthfulness and completeness, I must report: Violet Hunter made a bit of a face.
“And is that the only part of Miss Hunter’s tale that concerns you, Holmes?” I asked. I was still in the process of encouraging him to learn observation, inference and deduction.
“Not at all,” my friend replied. “Thinking back to our Adventure of the Solitary Tricyclist: is she not the second woman to come to us, lured into the service of a disreputable gentleman for unknown, nefarious purposes, for exactly the salary of a hundred per year?”
“She is,” I confirmed. “In point of fact, the second woman named Violet.”
“Some sort of conspiracy, do you think?”
“I’m not sure, but I am considering another moratorium. Miss Hunter, pray, continue your tale.”
“Mr. Rucastle must have noticed my hesitation, for he reached into his coat, produced his wallet and withdrew a fifty-pound note. ‘Perhaps I did not mention… it is always my custom to provide half of my staff’s wages in advance,’ he said. ‘Yes, you see, that way you can procure whatever little necessaries you might require for the trip. Here you are. I do hope we can expect you at the Copper Beeches tomorrow or the next day, eh?’
“But the offer—far from tempting me—repelled me to my core. Whatever misgivings I had been forming, here was proof that the situation was not to be trusted. I stood and said, ‘I am sorry, Mr. Rucastle. Thank you for the generous offer, but I could not possibly sacrifice my hair. I’m sure you shall find any number of suitable candidates waiting outside.’
“Miss Stoper rose to see me out. She pinched my elbow with some vehemence as she led me to the door and said, ‘Miss Hunter, your name will be removed from our lists. I really cannot see the point of including it when you turn down offers of such extraordinary generosity! Good day to you, Miss Hunter.’
“The door slammed shut behind me and I walked back home. When I found two fresh bills waiting there for me and little enough left in my account to answer them… well… I began to think I had been rather hasty. What fate would I rather? To be a shorn governess, or a well-coiffed flower girl?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those,” said Holmes.
“No, indeed,” Miss Hunter agreed. “I agonized about it all last night. But this morning I had this.”
She placed an open letter on the coffee table. This is what it said:
To the estimable Miss Violet Hunter,
Oh, how I regret the terms on which we parted yesterday. When I think of what an ideal governess you’d make for young Barghest, I am brought practically to tears. Will you not reconsider? I have told my wife of your suitability and she is very eager that you should come. She has urged me to increase the offer to £120 per year. I do regret that she is inflexible on the subject of your hair, but that is her fancy and it will not be denied. Perhaps the extra remuneration might compensate you for its loss? Do reply and let us know if we might expect you.
Yours in hopefulness,
Jephro “The Copper” Rucastle
“Well,” said Holmes, frowning down at the letter, “that’s a trap.”
“No question,” I agreed.
“That much was clear to me,” Miss Hunter said. “Nevertheless, I have accepted.”
“You did what?” I cried. “Why? Why would you do that?”
She gave me a sad look, but to answer me, she turned to Holmes. “My brother was Nicholaus Hunter. Do you remember the name?”
“I cannot say I do.”
“He used to do work for Clifford McCloe—a lieutenant of Moriarty. He ran afoul of you and Inspector Grogsson outside a jewelry shop, about four years ago.”
“Ah! I recall it!” Holmes said. “Yes! Brave lad. He shouted for his confederates to run, then turned to cover their retreat. Did quite well for himself, if I remember. Put a bullet through my favorite hat, shot Grogsson in the leg.”
“What became of him?” I asked.
“Well… he shot Grogsson, so…”
“As I believe I mentioned: I have no family,” Miss Hunter said, with a sad smile.
“Ah.”
“I do not blame you for it, Mr. Holmes,” said Violet. “Or even Grogsson. Poor lads who turn to crime often conclude their tales bleeding in the street. Either that or twitching at the end of a rope. Nevertheless, my brother was my keeper, for a time. And when he brought home his blood money, he brought tales as well: tales of ancient secrets, of magic and wonder. He walked in that world, gentlemen, albeit in a reprehensible capacity. Now, he is gone and I am faced with a choice. Either I can follow him—I can see the wonderful, dangerous majesty of this world, though it may mean my doom—or I can turn away and let the sad grayness of London digest me. His end was not so bad. He suffered only a moment. The demise that awaits me in the alleyway would take longer, torture me to my soul and be unworthy of remembrance. That is why I accepted the Copper’s offer, gentlemen, and it is why I came here. I am going to walk out of the subtle trap that awaits me here and into the stranger one presented in this letter. Yet, before I go… My brother also told me of how men could serve Moriarty in return for his protection.”
“Ugh, that’s true,” Holmes reflected. “His patronage was enough to ensure that even Scotland Yard must fear the humblest safe-cracker.”
“Moriarty is gone,” Miss Hunter said. “Not that I would place my troth in him, in any case. But my brother told me about you, Mr. Holmes. I know what you are. You are a sorcerer without equal and if Moriarty can take people under his protection, you can do the same. That is why I need to enter your service, sir. Then I shall go to the barber, sacrifice my hair, and face my fate.”
Holmes sat in silent consideration a moment, then shook his head and muttered, “I’m sure Moriarty knew more than I of such things. Likely there was a contract, or some exchange of favors and tokens. Blood, probably. Or—somewhat ironically—hair. It’s true that I look after my friends, but I’ve never had an actual thrall, per se…”
“How can I earn your help, Mr. Holmes?” Violet urged.
“Well, I think the main idea of the thing is: you must do something for me. You must accomplish a task that is to my benefit, which I have no power to effect myself.”
“Such as what, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well I don’t know! That’s the problem! I can do anything!” Holmes’s eyes swept across the room, looking for something he could task Miss Hunter with.
“Pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with my toast racks,” he muttered.
Finally, his eyes came to rest on me. He gave a sudden start and gasped, “Wait, now! Watson… Watson has lately become fascinated with a new foe of ours…”
“Because she presents mortal danger to us, Holmes. Because she bests us totally whenever our paths cross.”
“Is that why?” said Holmes. “You keep saying so, but each time you do I am less and less inclined to believe you. Every time you think of her, I can see a little more doom in your future. And let’s not forget the recent fascination you have gained with your own grave. You might be unafraid to die, but then what should become of me? No, something must be done!”
Holmes turned to our guest with a malicious grin and said, “Miss Hunter, you must kiss Watson.”
“What?” said the two of us together.
“Yes. See if you can’t kiss some of that doom off him.”
“Holmes!” I protested. “This is most irregular! Miss Hunter has never met me before this day and—even if she had—you cannot force a lady’s affections in this manner!”
Yet as I protested, Violet Hunter rose, gave a little smile and took a step in my direction. “The attitude does you credit,” she said, “and yet I need to perform
some service that Mr. Holmes cannot…”
As Miss Hunter walked up to the side of my chair, I spluttered, “Holmes, look here! This is highly—”
But she very calmly asked, “Dr. Watson, you would not send me to the Copper Beeches devoid of protection, would you?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Well then…”
She leaned down and placed her hands on either side of my face. I recall that my shapeless panic was given a sudden focus: how well had I shaved? Coolly as she handled it, I could tell the impropriety of the situation was not lost on her. The shadow of a blush lit the skin beneath her freckles and the smile she gave me was both embarrassed and sympathetic. She leaned in towards me and…
Argh!
I am sure I would not be confessing this to you, reader, if there were not a world-ending cataclysm looming, but…
It was my first kiss.
Well, I mean, discounting mothers and aunts and such. Oh, and Beryl Stapleton had kissed my cheek once—which very nearly made me wander off into a bog and die. The Woman had done the same, just after I ruined Holmes’s magical defense against her. But as far as proper kisses go, this was the first.
And it was everything I hoped it would be.
Violet Hunter was a funny little thing, with her tiny frame and her bobbing copper bun. Yet it hadn’t taken me long to come to admire her—her intelligence, her resolve and her bravery. She was a worthy person and the moment our lips touched, I was flooded with the feeling that she—how shall I say it?—that she deemed me worthy, too. That there was nothing separating us, now. There she was: soft, warm and alive—choosing me. Me, out of all the others who would be lucky to have her. For the first time, I understood what it was to be truly with another person.
And then it was over.
I’ve no idea how long it took. I hadn’t the foresight to look at the clock, either before or after. It might have been the barest moment. Or perhaps some minutes. All I know is that as she drew back from me, her cheeks were properly, scorchingly red and her breathing was quick. I stared up at her with—oh, how I dread to report it—my mouth hanging open like an utter idiot. She smiled down at me.
Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 15
